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Who am I? Why am I here? What is my name? Whence do I come? When did this begin?
O great purveyor of the fruitless questions, the desiccated god of mystery immortal - elected by celestials divine and crowned by those humans plagued by the eternal suffering of questioning. From thou we are endowed good and evil, black and white. Binary sects, boundaries impenetrable, breached by nothing, and evoking unending fractals. This fate of ours to lay awake in nights that do not witness dawn, to stare into twilight; it is a torment of the cruelest imaginings.
We are but pawns to your game, bent in humility and defeat. To conquer one of your challenges is to open up a paradoxical hallway's worth of doors to other problems - a hallway spiraling up and down interminably, all at once seen by the eye and yet infinitely hidden, beyond the grasp of mortal comprehension, not unlike that of the works of Escher.
We mount each others' shoulders to see but one generation's lifetime ahead, sometimes two, if we're lucky, three, and we see through our children and their children in this way, but always through the portals of our own damned eyes. Our perspective limits and is limitless - they shall never see what we see, and likewise for us.
However, the human collective cannot fathom and solve that which you have ingrained within us, just like an ant upon an unmarked Mobius strip. But your contraption is far more dire, far more convoluted, and we are flawed in too many ways. We leave our own marks upon this world uninhabited by more than one ephemeral soul at a single time and reality, and when we come across it yet again, we are confused by the passage of time - "Was this I that left this mark here, or another me, or someone else entirely?"
Our dreams are dreamt, then die, and we despair, for the way is futile and the puzzle's solution eludes us. Even our own erudite lords cannot be expected to resolve this conundrum.
Eventually, we sink into defeat. There is no match to your genius, to your curse of time. You have created us with the thirst of a desert, insatiable, except by the wrath of a thousand bottomless oceans. But should any of us slake that thirst, we are destroyed, for our forms are transient, and at that time when we truly comprehend the fatal mystery which upon us has been bestowed, we become something else entirely - a heaping mass of mud stretching from one horizon to the opposite end of the earth.
And so, we will never have the answers to the question that you have posed us, O great purveyor of the fruitless - that we are compelled by engineered instinct to pursue and answer.
I am a wanderer, seeking an inconsequential answer. My name is equally negligible. I came from where I began, at a time when the torment was first envisioned - from when I first stepped foot upon this land and opened my eyes to bear witness the horror that would unfold once and forever, blooming, but undying.
I am here now, in the north, after a season of migration.
Post has been edited 1 time(s), last time on Apr 30 2012, 11:45 am by Sand Wraith.
